


A Study in Loneliness

by Frankieteardrop



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Cheating, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Metafiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:57:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4215615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frankieteardrop/pseuds/Frankieteardrop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drawing inspiration from so many places here but mostly from "100 things Rammstein left behind".  It's a little bit meta.  It's a little bit hurt/comfort.  It's mostly from Richard's perspective. We'll talk more about this later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Loneliness

**Beginning.**

You stare at yourself in the mirror, looking for the cracks in your skin. You don't look like yourself. You don't look like anything. You’re like an empty shell, drifting through life with no real meaning or purpose. You swallow hard, unable to look away from this haunting face before you, as your hand reaches to touch the sullen cheeks in the mirror. It's cold. Everything about it is cold. You know this is only the beginning, but it's the start of a horrible spiral that will lead to nothing but bad dreams and eventual night terrors.  
“Are you okay?!”  
You hear a voice, but you can barely register who it belongs to. You jump at the hand on your shoulder, almost burning your skin with the temperature difference between the two bodies.  
“Are you okay?!” it repeats as you look up at him.  
“Yes... quite alright...” you smile. But you’re not. And you know better than to think he's none the wiser. He sighs and walks away and it just breaks your heart. Why can't you open up already?  
  
Maybe it's because you feel he doesn't need the burden of your mind on top of his already troubled shoulders. Maybe because if you opened the flood gates, it would never stop, and every single thought in your head would splurge out and you’d vomit before you could stop talking?  
Maybe because I knew, deep down, that if he knew the truth, he'd leave.  


_You can't be without him._  
You can't do it.  
You just can't. 

So you keep things bottled up. You keep your shitty feelings to yourself. Pop on a brave face for afternoon lunch with friends you don't really like, and go about your day, drinking butt-loads of wine and pretending that everything is just peachy.

But it's only the beginning.

You take yourself to bed with him, curl up under the sheets, and pretend to love him, when really, you know in your heart of hearts that you're just afraid to be alone (You know he doesn’t really love you). Afraid of that apartment, on your own, in the dark. Because on your own, there is no one to protect you with idle chit-chat from the depths of your own mind. And you sink in on yourself, and you just keep falling, and spiralling.  
“Are you alright?!” you ask him with a small smile.  
“Perfect...” he replies.  
But I can see behind his smile. It's not perfect. Nothing is okay.  
We're both struggling.  
But it's only the beginning.

**Accusation.**  
You watched the crippling change in expression on his face; some kind of confusion to a horrifying kind of shock; like he’d watched a car crash in slow motion with his loved ones behind the wheel. You put your eyes to the ground, unable to watch it anymore. It was too painful. 

His heart was broken.

There was too much silence. The atmosphere hangs thick and heavy around your neck. You had done this. You had ruined everything. And then came the cripplingly painful cry, like a mother who'd lost her child. A blood curdling scream of pain and anger. He nearly collapses, you can see his knees wanting to give out. But he holds it strong. And then comes the expected slap stinging you right cheek. 

You deserved it.

“You never fucking loved me!” came the accusations. There are no words you can string together quickly enough that would give him a logical explanation as to why you have done this. He is the one that’s strong with words, they escape you often, and now was one of those times. You can tell him that you love him till the cows come home, but he would never believe you. You know he’d never forgive you. You had broken him beyond repair.

You’ve argued, sure, but it had always been little things that could be forgiven with a warm hug and a kiss to the forehead. But this was the steel bar that had broken the camel’s back.   
“Was she worth it?!” he hissed through his tears, wiping the back of his hand angrily across his cheeks, as if more angry at himself for letting the barriers down and allowing himself to get upset over this.   
“Who was she?!”  
It's a question you can't answer.   
“I was drunk, and she left before I could find out...” You receive a second slap. You deserve that too.   


But this, all of this, is oddly comforting. It proves that he isn't the emotionless robot he fronts himself to be. He has never been open to sharing him emotions. But the gates were open, and it all comes flooding towards you like the violent sea, engulfing a helpless boat. 

“Get out.”   
And there it was. You were done.   
“I'm sorry,” you plead.  
“GET OUT!” he screams  
“I love you...”  
He ignored you, shoving you out of your apartment, slamming the door as soon as you are over the threshold.   
You'd ruined everything. The accusations were accurate. But it would be alright.  
You'd fix this.

**Restless.**  
He's just lying there, and you can't sleep. He's curled up in a ball, and you can't sleep. He's crying in his sleep, and you can't bring yourself to wake him and comfort him because you know ultimately it's your fault. You’re just restless, lying in this paralysed state, unable to move, or do anything. It's as if you’re in some sort of lucid dream, where you’re stuck in this hole and I can't get out and you can hear him crying but you can't get to him, and you can see him but you can't touch him. And you hate it. You just hate it. 

And the worst thing about this restless state, is that you keep drifting in and out of consciousness but nothing is changing. You’re still tired when you wake. You still feel sick to my stomach with guilt. Before all this, he was strong, emotionally stoic, and unbreakable. Now, he’s emotionally distant, but he sobs in his sleep, dreaming of the things you’ve done to him. You want so badly to reach out and hold him, but you’re afraid. Afraid of the rejection, and you know that you’re the reason he’s in this state. It’s all your fault.

So you lie there, with the monsters swarming, and the room darkening, and the sounds getting louder, and blood rushing in your ears and you’re helpless to stop it. This conscious stream of thought won't shut up. LET ME REST! LET ME REST!

But there's nothing you can do. Your own guilt won't let you help him. Won't let you wake him. You just lie here, paralysed. You just want everything to be better. You take everything back. You want your old life back.

_(Things will get better, I promise.)_

**Snowflake.**  
It snows a lot in Germany, you know that. You associate snow and Christmas with Germany, your Christmassy homeland. You got stuck in a snow storm at Christmas on your way to visit some friends in London one time. Some special things have happened in the snow, and you treasure it. You treasure these memories. Like the moment in the snow that you realised you loved him. You’d been dating a few months at that point, and the snow was heavy outside. You both walked back to his apartment, laden with presents from the Christmas market, and he asks you to stop one last time, outside a small shop, filled with small souvenirs and sweets, minutes down the road from his apartment.  
“Please! I just need this one last thing.” He pleads, and you sigh exasperatedly but nevertheless agree. You wait outside with the bags but you don’t mind. He returns mere moments later with a very small paper bag.  
“What did you get?” you ask him, attempting to peer into the bag.  
“You’ll find out later” he says, and takes his bags from you and you walk the way home in a comfortable silence.  
When you get home, he takes a painstakingly long time sorting his things out as you fumble around the kitchen to make something for you both to eat. You’ve completely set the table, cooked up some food and put it on the table before he’s finished with his gifts and things. When he arrived at the table ( _finally_ ), you notice the small paper bag in his hand.  
“What’s that?” you ask, and he smiles at you. He doesn’t answer, but he places it in front of you. You look down at it and frown softly, slowly picking it up and feeling it. “What is it?”  
“Open it!” and you do. And it’s a tiny collection of snowflakes inside a Perspex block. You look up at him and fumble with it through your fingers.  
“This… what?” you laugh, and he sits down, taking you hand.  
“You’re my special snowflake…” and he explodes with laughter. And it’s so infectious. Till’s gravitas is what he’s renowned for, but his laughter is beautiful and unexpected and infectious. It is in that moment that you realise you love him, more than anything in the world. You remember this fondly as you lie in bed, alone and cold.

**Haze.**  
You wake up in a hungover haze, eyes glazed over as you look around you surroundings, picking out little bits of familiarity to you. Your clothes are on the dressing table, strewn about the suitcase they were in. You spot your clothes from last night on the floor, and then you spot the body lying next to you on the bed. It isn’t Till. You’ve fucked up. Again. You quickly pull yourself out of bed and pull on some clothes, kicking the girl out of the bed as you scramble to put your things together. You pray to god you can cover this up, but as you pull the door open, there he is, staring you straight in the face.  
“Shit.”

**Flame.**  
You know he’s pointing that flame at you a little too close to you. You know he’s angry at you, again. You know he’s going to hurt you, and you deserve it. You know what you’ve done wrong. You know you deserve this.

**Formal.**  
Let’s take a step back in time;  
“It’s this damn bowtie.” You watch him and you can’t help but smile. “I’ve never been able to do this… Why couldn’t you find us some clip on ones or something?” – This makes you laugh. You move towards him, your formal attire all ready to go. “Reesh, please tie this… I’m all fingers and thumbs.” And you just smile at him. He’s in a beautiful suit; a really beautiful suit. Your fingers brush so close to his throat, you can feel the heat radiating from him. His pulse galloping at a rate of knots as you finish the final twist, and it’s done. You look up at him in awe. You know at this point in your life that you could love no one else quite like you love Till Lindemann. He’s a strange specimen of the human race, but it’s his uniqueness which draws you to him. “I mean, what kind of bank robbers go to this effort?”  
“It’s like Reservoir Dogs…” You say simply, “That’s what we’re going for, under your suggestion, I believe?” You smile up at him and wink, turning and heading to your place. You can hear him growling already. It’s not all that warm outside but you know he’s sweating under that suit. All you want to do it rip it from him. You think he doesn’t know how delicious he looks. But you need to clear those unsavoury thoughts from your mind. You have work to do. Save those thoughts for later.

**Move.**  
You look at him as he hands you a key. “Ours now…” he smiles, and sits himself next to you. This is your new life. Simple as that. You’ve moved forward with him. Hand in hand, side by side.

**Knowledge.**  
You know every single thing there is to know about Till Lindemann, and he knows everything about you. You know he hates his full name ( _Dietrich Lindemann – And you call him this when he’s being naughty_ ). You know about his ( _not –so_ ) secret love of all things sweet. You know about his accident that ended his, very promising, swimming career ( _He’s incredibly talented – and that’s why he’s got that delicious figure you love so much_ ). You know about his family history; his father and their troubled relationship, and all the feelings he has about his mother and his feelings about their divorce. You know all about his confidence issues ( _no matter how many times you tell him he’s beautiful_ ). You know about his struggles as a single father, and the strength of his relationship with his beautiful little girl ( _She’s not so little now_ ) but ultimately, you know he loves being a father more than anything. You know about his past relationships and the women ( _and men_ ) he’s been with and the ups and downs of their relationships ( _Some more up than down_ ). You know exactly what to do to heighten his mood ( _He’s got a small patch on the back of his neck that is soft and unscarred and beautiful, and he likes you running your fingers over that patch and through his hair_ ). You know exactly what to do to bring him crashing back down ( _You’ve done that many times_ ). And he knows everything about you. But that’s the thing, isn’t it. Knowledge is power. And if you know how to hurt someone, surely that’s the most powerful thing a person can possess. He’d never use that knowledge against you. So why do you continue to do this to him?

**Denial.**  
( _back to the present, things aren’t all that they appear_ )  
Things have never been better ( _or so you think_ ). Things are really starting to look up for you and him ( _or so you think_ ). Things are getting better ( _Or so you hope_ ). You’ve finished the tour, and you’re ready for a well-deserved break with Till. You know you both need this time together as it’s been difficult to get time alone when you’re both so exhausted with gigs and travelling. You finally get home to your apartment, and you’ve got a plan to make all this mess go away and make this so much better with Till.  
“I can’t do this anymore.”  
You turn to look at him as the words come out of his mouth. You ignore them; busy yourself with getting the evening ready, those words never came out of his mouth. “What would you like for food? Should we order Chinese in?!”  
“I said I can’t do this anymore Richard. I’m going home. I’m sorry.”  
The last thing you hear is the door closing behind him as he leaves. 

**Wind.**  
You can feel a breeze blowing through the apartment. You don’t know where it’s coming from but it feels quite nice against your feverish skin. You’ve been in the same place on the floor next to the bed for five days straight. As you revel in the cool feel against your skin, you can swear you can smell his aftershave. You pick up the t-shirt he left behind and press it to your face. The smell isn’t in the fabric anymore, so where is it coming from. You can hear footsteps. They’re slow and heavy on the wood floors running through your apartment. You slowly roll over, looking towards the door. “T-till…” You call, slowly trying to pull yourself to your feet.  
“Richard?” you hear, before a familiar face shows itself around the door frame.  
It wasn’t him. You realise then it’ll never be him. 

**Thanks.**  
A box arrives at your door one morning, with a note inside from him. You recognise the handwriting straight away. You pick it up from the folds of fabric and photos and records and run your fingers over the envelope. You can smell his aftershave on the paper. You sit yourself down and stare at it for a while, not having the courage to open it up. You finally pluck up the courage. You know it’s going to be savage.  
_“Richard,_  
Here are your things. I need to clear these out of my apartment, otherwise things will never get better for us. I’m sorry. Thank you for everything, and for being so understanding.  
Till."

**Transformation.**  
Time for a little trip back to the past. ( _Again_ )  
From the quiet man running his own business in Berlin, to the monster that you created that dominates the stage, you’ve watched him transform and grow and develop. You’ve watched him transform into this beautiful, confident, dominating power. You watch him as you play and you just want to sink your teeth into him. It was watching him on stage which made you realise you’d fallen in lust with him. Not love, that comes much later, but you want him. And you know you do. And you’re going to have him. You’re going to enjoy him. He’s magnificent, and that transformation you’ve helped to create in him has only pushed your feelings further.

**Tremble.**  
You love this little thing about him. It’s very small (get your mind out of the gutter), but it’s something that only you get to see these days. When you hold him close, post-sex haze drifting away from you, he holds you so close to him, but you can feel his exhausted muscles trembling against you as he squeezes you tight into him. It’s as if his whole self is shaking, and you just run your hands over his skin, soothing and relaxing his tired body, feeling him slowly release you, kissing your forehead. He’s so vulnerable in this moment, and only you get to see it. God, you just love him. 

**Mad.**  
You’ve never taken a beating this bad. But you know why he’s hit you and you know why he’s angry. You know what you’ve done. You know you deserve his words and his actions. You’ve broken him and then flaunted it in front of him. You’ve earned this beating. Take it like a man.

**Thousand.**  
_Shit, there are so many people. Will he cope?_  
Of course he’ll cope. He’s Till fucking Lindemann. You know he’s safe. He can do this.

**Winter.**  
( _Jet setting into the future_ )  
It might be the coldest time of the year but you’re the warmest you’ve ever felt. He radiates heat. He’s such a comfort to you.  
He looks down at you with sleep heavy eyes and pulls you in closer. He can be such an aloof person, but in these small moments, he can be so intimate. You treasure these moments. 

**Letters.**  
_Dear Richard,_  
_It’s been four months, fifteen days, eight hours, three minutes and sixteen seconds since I walked away from you. At the time, it was for the best, but now, I’m not so sure. My head tells me we aren’t meant to be together, however, my heart longs for you in a way that it does no other. I am at a loss for words. I don’t know what to do._  
_Till._  
____________________  
_Dear Till,_  
_Just come back to me. Please._  
_Yours forever,_  
_Richard._

**Promise.**  
He agrees to meet you in a café in Berlin. You’re overjoyed, and you know that getting him to meet you is the most difficult part of this. He is a stubborn man, and you had to fight against all of his better judgement. As you walk to the café, you see him. There he is, drinking a black coffee, dressed in dark clothes, like some kind of black hole, dragging you towards him. You can feel his gravity pulling you in, his face unreadable. He spots you, and slowly gets to his feet. You cannot take your eyes from him. Even after twenty years, he is still beautiful.  
As you approach him, you nod at him, both of you opening your arms for an awkward reunion hug. The band came off tour and took a break, and you haven’t seen him in months. You both sit and you just stare at him. You can hardly believe that he’s here.  
“Are you still angry with me?” you ask him, and you know the answer. He just sighs and rubs at his eyes with the balls of his hands. “I know… Stupid question.” You say, scratching at your jaw.  
“I’m not angry anymore.” He says plainly. “I think it’s just you. It’s just what you do.” He says, sipping at his coffee. The waitress comes over and takes a look at your shell shocked face. “I’ve come to terms with that, and I think we can move forward. He’ll have a black coffee.”  
You cannot even speak. You’re in shock. You think he thinks you’re some kind of whore ( _which you kind of are_ ) but you know that he makes you better (which he does).  
“I want to be better for you. Please. I promise to be better for you.” You say. And he smiles. That’s all he does.  
**Simple.**  
He’s lying next to you, holding you close. You’re listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart; feeling the warmth radiating from him; listening to his breathing, slow and steady. It’s so calming. It’s where you need to be. You trace small, inconsequential patterns on his chest, holding tightly. This is where you’re meant to be. You two were made for each other, right? You know it’s true. And you fixed this, just as you promised. It’s simple really, when you’re in love.  
In this moment you know you are forgiven.  
**Future.**  
Things have never been better ( _they definitely are_ ). Things are really starting to look up for you and him ( _you know they are_ ). Things are getting better ( _they are getting better_ ). You’ve finished the tour, and you’re ready for a well-deserved break with Till. You know you both need this time together as it’s been difficult to get time alone when you’re both so exhausted with gigs and travelling. You finally get home to your apartment, and you’ve got a plan to make all this mess go away and make this so much better with Till.  
“We should go away together…”  
You turn to look at him as the words come out of his mouth. You smile and move towards him, kissing him gently on the cheek.  
“I’m homesick Till, let’s stay home a while.” And he smiles, kissing your forehead before he moves to put his things away. You two are perfect. You are forgiven. You have fixed this.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay!  
> So this is my very first fic here and for Rammstein ever. I'm pretty nervous about this, but you all seem quite nice so I'm hopeful. 
> 
> I was inspired by "100 Things that Rammstein Left Behind". I've read it like 58 times, and I've always wanted to experiment with metafiction. I don't even know if I've really achieved that, but I gave it a good go! 
> 
> Anyway! I'd kind of sadistic in that I love writing this type of thing where NO ONE CAN BE HAPPY but I gave it a little hopeful ending for y'all.  
> Anyway, feedback is always appreciated. I hope you like this.


End file.
